MOOBS

I read an article about Jeremy Piven last week. I used to have a huge crush on him when he was the romantic comedy sidekick in movies such as Serendipity. However, when he became part of Entourage (not that I’ve ever seen that show), he wasn’t so cute and adorable anymore—more just kinda blurry and cocky. All this to say, in the article I read, it quoted him as stating that Soy Milk was responsible for him developing man breasts. (Go ahead. Shudder. Be glad you’re not a massage therapist.) Apparently, it has been the belief of several people (and the results of some studies—if I understood the article correctly) that soy products have indeed been seen to cause an increase of some female hormone (I don’t think it was estrogen, but maybe—don’t you love how fact driven I always am?) in men—and at times, causing the problem with man boobs. (Again, let the involuntary shuddering of your body cease before you continue reading—no need to hurt yourself.)
How does this relate to me you ask? Well, here you go:
One of my on and off diet tricks over the years has been eating cereal for dessert at night. In fact, I love, love cereal. And the healthy kind too—I don’t like all the sugar cereals (I know, I can’t believe it either). I actually love Special K and such. Anyway, I gradually weaned myself off of whole milk (I refuse to do any other kind of milk—sick) and switched to Rice Milk (Vanilla). I love rice milk. It makes everything sweeter. Mmmmm. So, my happy little life with Rice Milk continued until that fucking day in April. On that day, along with so many other things in my life—Rice Milk abandoned me too. I guess I abandoned it—turn about is fair play, right? You see, we always went to King Soopers. We had our little ritual, who pushed the cart, who got what items (it wasn’t planned, it just happened), always listening to Sandcastle Disco either to or from the store. Well, when I finally started to the grocery store again, which wasn’t that long ago, I switched to Safeway. Which, for the most part, I have found preferable. However, I have not found a Safeway with Rice Milk. They only have Soy Milk. So, I have been using Soy for my cereal. It’s not as good. It’s a little thick and coaty. However, I have been growing accustom.
Until Jeremy Piven. Dammit. I read the article and decided I would finish my last carton of Soy Milk and then switch back to whole milk (which now I no longer like—not enough vanilla flavor—dumb cows). This sounded like an acceptable plan. It seems that my psyche had different intentions. Unbeknownst to me, my body refused to take a chance of returning to the man boobs. I used to be a supporter of little boy boobs, and that was enough—thanks. After my third massage last night at 10:30, I sat down to my dinner and followed it with a bowl of cereal. I took four or five bites. Enjoying the house hunter show to which I’ve become addicted. Petting Dolan. Suddenly, I nearly threw-up on Dolan. Really. I managed to stop myself and swallow the cereal. I sat back for a few moments trying to gather my composure. I looked at the cereal. It looked back at me. I looked at Dolan. He waved his front paws, asking me to pet him. I looked back at the cereal. This time, the cereal had the faintest gleam in its eye. Surely not. It had to be a fluke. Tentatively, I took another bite. Voraciously, bile rose within and my stomach churned. I forced it down. Giving a hurt and longing gaze at my rejecting cereal, I watched it flow down the sink. I went to bed cerealess.
The story should stop there. You would hope. But no. I went to Starbucks—if I work so hard at massages, I deserve Starbucks and I don’t feel a bit bad about it. I ordered my Pumpkin Spice Chai. Heaven. There was a new girl as the barista, who thought that PS stood for Pumpkin Soy—Not simply pumpkin spice. When she called me up to receive my Pumpkin Chai with Soy, I looked befuddledly at the drink. She asked if I had wanted Soy, if the PS stood for Pumpkin Soy. She looked so cute (she really was gorgeous), so afraid that she’d messed up, that I simply said, ‘yes, absolutely.’ (I’m going to regret that the next time I order this drink. Shit.) At this point, I didn’t think much about last night. I thought maybe my soy milk had gone bad or that I was just so tired from school and all the massages. Plus soy makes things sweeter, so I might like this new concoction. I’m not gonna get breasts from Starbucks. Starbucks is too good, to pure, to do such evilness. I was nearly half done with my venti when the same gurgling began to occur as last night. There was no cereal around. No Dolan. I had not just finished three hours of massages. In horror I looked at my Chai. It looked back, all innocence. In disbelief, I forced three more sips. Each bringing my revulsion closer to the surface, and closer to the interior of my car. With abject sorrow and treachery, I sat the Chai down, and with a stab of guilt, I later threw it away. It seems the subconscious battle over breasts has been averted. My chest is happy about it, as is my limited allowance for bras. Although a nice cinnamon colored lace number could have been the answer to all my struggles.